


The Hunter, the Psychic, and the Bathrobe

by Emachinescat



Category: Psych
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by The Most Dangerous Game - R. Connell, Mystery, Serial Killers, Suspense, Thriller, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-19
Updated: 2013-08-29
Packaged: 2018-01-14 09:13:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1260955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emachinescat/pseuds/Emachinescat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meet The Hunter, a genius serial killer who is in it for the chase. He's been working his way across the country from Maine all the way to California, he's killed ten people, and he's never, ever been caught. Now he's got his sights set on some elusive new prey – a famed psychic detective from Santa Barbara – and nothing is going to get in his way. In this game, it's kill or be killed, and Shawn Spencer is about to become the key player.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - The Hunter

**Author's Note:**

> Don't own, for entertainment purposes only. :)
> 
> This is a work-in-progress, so I'll add chapters as they are written.
> 
> Enjoy. :)

The room was small and cozy. Thick Persian carpet padded the floor, and a small gas fire crackled in the hearth. The silk maroon wallpaper was barely visible beneath the vast collection of hunting trophies coating the walls. The occupant of the room was an avid hunter; the prizes from his various ventures – skins, rugs, coats, mounted heads – proved this to be true. He loved the thrill of the chase, but he no longer hunted deer, bear, mountain lions, or even alligator. Instead, he had had a new type of quarry for the past two years, and it had proved to be the most exciting yet.

Three walls were mounted with guns and furs and stuffed creatures. The back wall – the one opposite the fireplace – was mostly covered by a large bulletin board, not unlike one that might be used in a police investigation. The board was covered in pictures, all arranged neatly so that he could admire his past escapades and plan his new hunts with ease. There were ten pictures in all, and each of the large photographs had a large, red "X" jotted over the surface.

The last few hunts had been mediocre at best. He was getting tired of the same tricks, the same half-baked escape plans, and having to use the same strategies in order to catch his prey. Yes, he loved the hunt, and his new quarry was much better than the dumb animal, but still, even this had become stale. He needed something different, something unique. Something that wouldn't lie down and die. Something that would fight and actually prove to be a challenge. Something, perhaps, that had abilities that were beyond the norm.

He needed a true opponent.

With a grim smile of anticipation, the tall, muscular man that had been lurking in the shadows of the room came forward, yet another picture, this one devoid of any red markings, clutched in his meaty hands. He strode forward purposefully, and used a thumbtack to post the picture of the blown-up newspaper picture of the brown-haired, hazel-eyed man posing ridiculously in front of a dinosaur exhibit. It was a stupid picture, and an old one, but he had chosen it because it reminded him what this man was capable of.

With almost gentle hands, the man reached out and ran a finger down the side of the photograph, his eyes glinting darkly in the dim light from the fire behind him. "Perhaps you, my psychic friend, will be a worthy adversary," he whispered to the picture, and then he turned away abruptly. He had preparations to make, and then a plane to catch to Santa Barbara.

After three months of silence from the infamous killer, The Hunter was back on the prowl.

And it felt good.


	2. Gymnastics Never Killed Anyone (But a Serial Killer Did)

Shawn Spencer was having a dream that was eerily similar to  _James and the Giant Peach_  where he was James, Gus was the giant caterpillar, and Lassie, for some reason, was that weird spider lady. The best part? They were flying over Santa Barbara in an enormous pineapple, and were just about to drop a giant balloon filled with strawberry preserves on to Shawn's dad's house when a phone rang somewhere in the distance. Shawn tried to ignore it, and focused on dropping the strawberry balloon in the exact spot at the perfect time in order to ensure maximum splash effect, when the phone started ringing again.

Shawn tried to stay asleep, in his wonderful dream, but his body was waking up. With a grumble, Shawn cracked his eyes open to find that he had been sleeping in his surprisingly comfortable chair behind his desk at the Psych office (he'd stayed late to wrap up a few loose ends on small case last night, and must have fallen asleep), there were the remnants of a drained pineapple-strawberry smoothie on the desk next to his computer, and the TV was on in the background. He vaguely remembered that ABC Family had been showing  _James and the Giant Peach_  last night, and that, along with his fruity smoothie, explained the dream. He still wasn't sure why Lassie had been a lady, and quite frankly, he wasn't sure if he wanted to know, but it wasn't the first time he'd dreamed about Lassiter cross-dressing. The cordless phone, which was actually charged today, was ringing insistently from its place on the shelf across the room.

The phone stopped ringing for a second, and Shawn briefly entertained the idea of going back to sleep since his wristwatch and newly purchased kitty-cat wall clock (it meowed every hour and its tail moved back and forth with every tick of the clock; Shawn had bought it for the dual purposes that it was incredibly cute and it creeped Gus out) said that it was just 6:32 in the morning. Not five seconds had passed before the phone started ringing anew, and Shawn realized that whoever was on the other line must be pretty desperate to talk, so he forced himself out of his chair and on to his feet, cracking his back and yawning as he did so. He was a little more awake by the time he answered the phone on the sixth ring.

He was going to answer with a snarky or clever (or perhaps snarky and clever) alias and quip, but he remembered at the last minute that this was the business phone and that it was supposedly bad for business and unprofessional if he answered the phone as Lenny from "Of Mice and Men," so he settled with a tired, "Psych."

"Spencer, why the hell haven't you been answering your phone? I've been calling all morning." Shawn blinked, wondering if he had heard the voice that sounded strangely like Lassie but much more concerned (and irritated, if that was possible for the head detective) correctly.

"Whoa, Lassie? I know I haven't called in the last few hours, Buddy, but I need some me time. You're starting to sound like a clingy wannabe girlfriend, and I honestly don't need another Gina Raypeck in my life." He paused for a split second, long enough to take a breath but too short for Lassie to get so much as a syllable in, though to be fair, the testy detective did try his best. "I could use another Gus, though," Shawn decided. "Mine keeps yelling at me about paying bills, charging phones, selling his vintage Thundercats figurines on eBay, and all kinds of other silly stuff. You can be Gus 2.0 if you want, and you can come around when the Grumpy Gus is hanging about. We'll have to do something about that pasty Irish skin-tone of yours, of course, but I have some bronzer that'll do wonders-"

"SPENCER!"

Detective Lassiter had been trying and failing to get a word in edgewise among the pseudo-psychic's endless chatter, but every time that he had raised his voice or tried to speak over him, Shawn would simply start talking louder and faster, until Lassiter finally snapped.

Shawn blinked, surprised at the detective's tone. While there was the customary exasperation, anger, and irritation (and unacknowledged admiration for his colleague's psychic prowess, Shawn believed), there was also something else: a strange, foreign element to the man's voice that suggested that maybe all was not right with the world.

Worry.

Shawn wisely shut up and waited for the irate detective on the other line to continue. There was a slight pause, and Lassiter ordered in a terse voice, "Get down to the station NOW - no stops along the way, no idiotic antics. Guster's already on his way. And where the heck is your cell, Spencer? We tried to call you on it five times and it went straight to your ridiculous voicemail."

"Um," said Shawn, who didn't need to be a psychic (or even an incredibly handsome fake one) to know that something big was going on. "It's dead."

Lassiter cursed. "For liberty's sake, Spencer, you really are an idiot. Look, come straight here like I said. No detours. And charge your phone! If you're not here in fifteen, I'm sending McNabb to find you, and I can assure you, if that happens, you are not gonna want to deal with me. Fifteen minutes."

Dial tone.

Shawn sat, a bit stunned at the strange but not uninteresting start to his morning, but quickly recovered and hastened to get ready. Curiosity was building up inside of him.

He hastened to get ready and was out the door in less than six minutes. He really hoped that the station had donuts this morning, because Lassiter hadn't given Shawn any time for breakfast.

He climbed on to his motorcycle and took off toward the police station.

* * *

Juliet was waiting for him outside of the station when he pulled into the parking lot nine minutes later. She looked beautiful today, as usual, with her blonde hair pulled back in a neat, tight ponytail at the base of her head. She was wearing a form-fitting pantsuit and the little silver earrings that Shawn had given her last week for a "just because" present. Shawn's heart gave a little leap when he saw her, and this time, it was not just from his feelings for her. She looked anxious, and the haunted look in her eyes was enough to convince Shawn that maybe he should be worried, too, about whatever was going on.

Juliet's eyes lit up considerably when Shawn took off his helmet and looked her way, but they didn't lose their haunted gleam.

"Jules!" Shawn called across the parking lot. He hurried to her side right as the Blueberry squealed into the lot and parked beside Shawn's Norton. Gus leaped out and ran to catch up with his best friend, who was just a few yards away from Juliet now.

"Dude, what's going on?" Gus asked anxiously as he matched strides with Shawn. Juliet called me at 6:30 telling me to come straight here. We get a new case?"

Shawn narrowed his eyes. "Maybe. But something isn't right here, Buddy."

He said the last words as he reaches Juliet and pulled her in to his arms. His girlfriend stiffened at his words but the allowed herself to melt briefly in his arms. Gus graciously pretended to be fascinated with an oil stain on the asphalt during the couple's brief but intimate moment. Less than thirty seconds later, Juliet was all business again as she pulled away from Shawn, looked him straight in the eye, and affirmed in a grave voice, "You're absolutely right, Shawn. We've got a big, big problem, and YOU are at the heart of it."

Shawn and Gus exchanged nervous glances. "What are you talking about, Jules?" Shawn asked, eyes wide. "I can say with relative certainty that I have not done anything that could be deemed unlawful in the past... twenty-two hours?" He grinned his customary, charming, and disarming smile, but his jest didn't make so much as a dent in Juliet's worried countenance.

"Come on inside, guys. We'll explain everything."

Gus voiced Shawn's next question before Shawn had a chance to open his mouth. "And will there be food?"

Juliet smiled slightly, and Shawn tried his best not to be bothered that his best friend had made Juliet smile when Shawn hadn't been able to.

He forgot his somewhat selfish musings at his girlfriend's next words, however: "We knew we'd have to deal with the two of you on empty stomachs, and I think we all know from experience how unpleasant that can be. So yeah, we've got donuts and breakfast burritos waiting in the conference room."

Gus moved so quickly that Shawn would later swear that all he saw of the man was a chocolaty blur of primal hunger. Juliet would later attest that Shawn followed so quickly on Gus's heels that the two of them almost killed themselves trying to be the first in the conference room to get the best pick of the food.

Juliet followed at a much slower pace, not at all eager to enter the conference room, because she knew just what it was that she would have to face again in there, and all she really wanted to do wad pretend that none of this was happening.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Shawn's three powdered donuts and two loaded breakfast burritos sat like lead in his queasy stomach as he stated at the brutalized image displayed on the screen in front of him.

The conference room was occupied by only a few. Shawn sat between his uncharacteristically quiet father and Gus, and across from Juliet, who in turn was beside Lassiter. Instead of sitting, however, the head detective stood behind his chair, leaning heavily on the back of it. His knuckles were clenched so tightly that they were white. If something was rattling the great, unflappable Carlton Lassiter, them Shawn figured it must be pretty bad. Judging by the picture on the screen, the situation was more than just pretty bad. Beside him, Gus emitted a pitiful squeak, not unlike the sound of a newborn kitten, and his face distorted painfully as he tried to keep his four burritos and three donuts in place.

"What the hell is this, Karen?" Ah, there was the not-so-good old voice of Henry Spencer, whom Shawn had known wouldn't stay silent for long.

The chief's face was dark and brooding as she stood in front of the screen and faced her small, serious, disturbed audience. "This," she said in a slow, deadly calm voice, "is Patrick Reese. Forty-seven years old. Renowned private investigator, marksman, outdoorsman, and gymnast from Laketown, Maine."

Despite the seriousness of the moment, Shawn's mouth seemed to have a mind of its own, and the psychic detective blurted incredulously, "Seriously? A fifty-year-old gymnast? With a leotard?"

Gus snapped out of his disgusted stupor long enough to offer a rebuttal. "He was forty-seven, Shawn. It's called a unitard on men. And what's wrong with an older gentleman doing gymnastics? It's a great way to keep the body strong and limber-"

"Good lord, Gus, stop saying words. I really don't have any desire to hear more about the man's limberness."

"I didn't mean it like that, Shawn, and you know it," Gus snapped, even as the others in the room watched with a mixture of irritation and amusement. No one tried to steer the topic back to the matter at hand quite yet, for although it was pressing and serious, the best friends' banter, while usually exasperating, was a welcome relief, for a brief time at least.

"Gus, don't be Parker Stevenson's man-perm. First of all, you didn't clarify, so how on earth was I supposed to know in what context you were talking about this man's remarkable limberness, and second of all, isn't gymnastics dangerous for people of his tender age? He'd break a hip or something that people of his age have a bad habit of doing."

Lassiter's face colored slightly due to Shawn's insinuation about people around Patrick Reese's - and, consequently, Carlton's - age being old and feeble.

"I never said he was remarkable, Shawn," Gus pointed out. "And he was just about fifteen years older than us."

"Yes, but our child-like hearts are going to keep is vibrant and young for years to come, unlike Lassie here, who is slowly withering away due to his grumpy Grinch determination to not believe in friendship and magic and love and all the wonderful things that make the world go round."

"Gravity makes the world go round," Lassiter ground out between gritted teeth.

"You're right," Gus decided, moving in to fist bump his friend. "That's sad."

"He needs to be hugged more often. Or at least once in his life. Go on, Gus, give Lassie-bear a great big cuddle-hug."

At the same time, Lassiter and Gus looked at Shawn and said, "You must be out of your damn mind!" Shawn threw his hands up in false surrender.

"Great harmony, guys. Let's try it again, but this time, Lassie, why don't you go high and Gus, you go low?"

"Spencer, I –"

"Okay, we've proven once again that my son is a complete idiot," Henry interrupted before Lassiter could finish whatever threat he was about to send Shawn's way. "Can we get back to the matter at hand?"

Karen nodded sternly, although the atmosphere in the room was slightly less tense than before, other than Lassiter, who looked like he was about to burst a vein in his forehead. "We've wasted enough time." Everyone reluctantly turned their attention back to the grizzly image on the screen.

Shawn spoke again, but this time his voice was subdued, sad, and maybe even a little apologetic. "How did he die?"

Karen met his eyes. "He was the first victim of a serial killer who calls him - or her - self The Hunter. There have been nine victims since, and it seems like he or she has been working their way across the country."

"And now they've made it to Santa Barbara," Shawn guessed, not even bothering to put his hand to his head, because the direction that the conversation was going was so obvious.

"So it would seem," the chief agreed, her eyes troubled.

"So that's why you've got l the secrecy right now," Henry realized.

"If word got out that The Hunter's in the area, there would be panic," Juliet affirmed.

"But you have to warn the people!" Gus protested. "They need to protect themselves!"

"No need, at the present, Guster," Lassiter said. "The killer has already chosen his or her victim, and they never go after anyone other than their chosen target, though they'd have no problem killing anyone who gets in their way."

"So you know who they're after?" Henry asked, his tone indicating that he had a bad feeling about what was coming next.

Juliet, Lassiter, and Chief Vick exchanged a round of nervous looks. "Yes. We showed you this image not to frighten any of you-"

"Uh huh," Gus muttered indignantly, but he was steadfastly ignored by everyone in the room, even Shawn. The latter was listening and watching intently with his super serious Shawn face in full commission.

"-but rather to give you an idea of just what it is we're up against and to show you how serious this is. This killer is too good at what he or she does. Ten victims, across the country, never been caught. No one even knows what happens to the victims while they are captives, only what the end result is. We are dealing with a very dangerous person, and we have to do everything and anything to not only catch this guy, but keep the target safe."

Shawn grinned, putting a hand to his head. "And you need my incredible psychic powers to protect this person. You got it, Chief."

"Not exactly, Mr. Spencer," said the chief, and Shawn's face fell slightly at the dismissal. Vick's voice was subdued, her face tight as she looked from Shawn to Henry, and then back to Shawn again. Henry narrowed his eyes. Gus looked nervously around the room. Lassiter glared at the table top in front of him like it was a hardened criminal or a pesky squirrel. Juliet bit her lip. Shawn didn't take his eyes off the chief as he waited for an explanation.

"I don't know how to tell you this, Shawn," the chief said, and the use of his first name made the knot in Shawn's stomach grow as he tried to pretend that he had no idea what she was about to say, although he'd figured it out almost as soon as she'd mentioned the target. "And I'm sorry. But the target is-"

"-me," Shawn finished, his throat dry. "He's after me."


	3. If I Wanted to Play a Game, I'd Break Out Some Cranium

On the outside, Shawn Spencer seemed to be taking the news that he was the next target of a brutal, horrific serial killer rather well.

On the inside, he was panicking.

 _Not again_ , he thought as he tried to dislodge his heart from his throat.  _The Yin/Yang fiasco was enough. And if this guy's work is as terrible as it looks in the pictures, he's way worse than Yin could have ever been._

The man on the screen, the old but apparently limber private investigator gymnast from Maine, was mutilated grotesquely. One eye socket was hollowed out completely, other than the remnants of blood. It looked like he'd had a gun shoved right up to his eye and had then been shot point-blank. His face was a mask of blood, he had been shot in the chest at  _least_  three times, and the rest of his scarcely clothed body was a mottle of bruises, scrapes, scratches, and gashes that didn't even leave a square inch of clear skin. His feet were torn and bloody, and there were toes missing. Shawn forced himself to look closer at the picture than he had before, trying to see anything past the ghastly mutilations. Squinting, he  _saw_  what appeared to be signs of rotting and decay on the body. Shifting his gaze slightly, he also  _saw_  barely visible specks of white dotting the wounds and lacerations. The edges of the man's feet were caked in mud, and Shawn could just barely see the small, dull green traces of grass and twigs mixed with the dirt and blood.

Everyone's eyes were on him. No one had said anything since Shawn had correctly guessed what was going on. Perhaps they thought he needed quiet to process this. Perhaps they were afraid he would melt into a puddle of wimp. Or maybe they were just as stunned as he was and were trying to wrap their minds around the implications as well. Of course, Jules, Lassie, and Vick already knew. Shawn also had a feeling that his dad had had an idea of what was going on, too. Poor Gus had been completely blind about all of this, and from the heavy Lamaze breathing that was going on next to Shawn, he figured that Gus was taking this harder than all of them. Of course, knowing Gus, he might have still been simply trying to keep his breakfast down after seeing the picture. The knowledge that his best friend was the next target probably didn't help Gus's stomach either, though.

Knowing that he wouldn't have to make a scene to get everyone to look at him, Shawn slowly raised a hand to his head, indicating that he was having a "vision," and tore his eyes away from the horrific picture. He looked straight ahead, but didn't make eye contact with anyone at the table. He didn't want to look at anyone; he was afraid they'd see the fear in his eyes. He was already sure that they could see his hand shaking slightly as he lifted it to his head.

Chief Vick spoke, her voice calm but strong. "What do you have, Mr. Spencer?"

"I—" His voice came out weaker than he meant for it to. He cursed himself, took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and then started again. This time, he sounded much more like his usual self. Not quite normal, carefree Shawn, but it was close enough, considering the circumstances. "I am sensing that this man had been dead for at least several days before he was found, and that he had been left in a heavily wooded area. The spirits are also telling me that he might have tried to  _escape_  through the same woods that he was found in." The mud and foliage on the victim's bloodied feet, coupled with the fact that the bullets had exited through the man's chest indicated that he had been shot from behind, and together, they made a very convincing case that he had been running away when he had been shot.

Lassiter spoke up, and the normal all-business tone of voice that he used actually served to comfort Shawn to a certain extent. He looked up to see Lassie looking at him with a serious face, but at least he wasn't staring at Shawn like he was about to disappear into thin air, like his father, girlfriend, and best friend had been doing ever since the bomb had been dropped; he might have been avoiding eye contact, but Shawn had still been able to see glimpses of their facial expressions in his peripheral vision. The sense of normalcy allowed Shawn to calm down a bit internally after the initial terror had somewhat passed. "Mr. Reese was found by some hikers on a nature trail after having been missing for about three weeks. He had been dead for at least three days when they found him. His body had started to decompose, and his flesh had already been inhabited by larvae and picked at by buzzards."

There was a gagging sound, and Shawn turned to see his best friend hunched over the table, his skin an unnatural green color. "Excuse me," Gus managed to whine before he bolted from his seat so quickly that the spinny-chair was still turning slightly by the time he was out the door and halfway to the bathroom. Shawn sniggered, and to his relief, Juliet let out a micro-chuckle. Poor Gus's not-so-steel stomach had managed to ease much of the tension in the room, and Shawn was glad of it.

Feeling slightly better, Shawn turned back to Lassie. "Now that we can talk freely, Lassie-Face, without having to censor our words for Gus, why don't you be blunt and give us the  _really_ gory details?" He smirked, Lassie scowled, and Shawn felt a bit more normalcy return to the world.

"Shawn," Henry said. Shawn groaned mentally. Papa Monkey had found his voice again. This didn't bode well for Shawn's coping mechanism: making fun of whatever scared him, because his dad knew exactly how to call him out on it and was the master at bursting any and all balloons.

Shawn looked at his father and saw the unmasked worry there. Henry Spencer was a master at hiding his emotions, but over the past few years, Shawn had come to realize that his dad was a bit more transparent when it came to his son. Now, at the news that Shawn was the next target of a brutal serial killer, Shawn's dad couldn't hide his fear, no matter how hard he tried. Taking a little bit of pity on the old man, Shawn put his hand on his father's shoulder and said, "It's fine, Dad."

Henry didn't answer, but from his expression, it was easy to tell that it was far from fine. He shrugged Shawn's hand off and turned to the chief. "How do you know that Shawn is the target? Did The Hunter contact you?"

"He left a message at the station, yes," Karen nodded grimly. She turned to the next slide, which showed a blown-up picture of a fancy invitation card printed in beautiful, swooping calligraphy on what looked to be legitimate parchment paper. Squinting to interpret the swirly handwriting, Shawn finally made out:

_To: The Santa Barbara Police Department_

_Greetings._

_I would like to cordially invite one of your own to join me to participate in a grand game of which the likes of Santa Barbara has never seen._

_Please give my regards to Mr. Shawn Spencer, Psychic Detective. He will be receiving a less formal invitation to join me in the near future. Please tell him to be looking for my call._

_I look forward to The Game._

_Signed,_

_The Hunter_

"Seriously?" Shawn asked. "Who does this guy think he is, with all his fancy writing and big words? Frederick Shakespeare?"

Juliet shot him a strange look. "It's  _William_  Shakespeare, Shawn."

Shawn considered this for a moment. "I've—"

"No, Shawn, you haven't heard it both ways," Henry snapped. He turned back to Karen. "He did this for the first ten victims? A formal invitation to some kind of twisted game?"

Karen nodded, her eyes troubled. "We've been following the movements of The Hunter from the moment he or she became known to the public. We always knew that there would be a possibility that they would make their way here, and we wanted to be ready if they did. But what we've learned from the other police departments that have dealt with this guy isn't reassuring. From the very beginning, they let the police department know who they are going to take. With the first victim, this killer wasn't known, so even though a little bit of extra protection was arranged for him, there wasn't a big deal made until his body was found three weeks later. Since then, it doesn't matter if the chosen target is put into the highest possible security. Somehow, The Hunter manages to take them, anyway."

"So basically, I'm screwed?" Shawn asked, only half-joking.

"Only if you don't do  _exactly_  what we tell you, Mr. Spencer," the chief said sternly, "because I promise you, if you will cooperate fully with the department regarding your protection, we will make  _sure_  that you stay out of harm's way until The Hunter is caught."

Shawn looked at the chief dubiously. "Why do I have a feeling that all the other departments promised their people the same thing?" he asked almost mournfully.

"Spencer, you need to show some respect—" Lassie ground out.

"Carlton, enough," the chief admonished. "It's a fair question. And I'm afraid I don't have a very reassuring answer for you, Shawn. But the fact remains that until this killer is caught – and believe me, we will be working with not only the FBI, but the other departments that have encountered The Hunter as well – all we can do is put everything we have into keeping you as protected as we can. Which  _means_ ," she said sternly, "that you  _cannot_  be anywhere  _near_  this case."

Shawn's mouth fell open. "What? Come on, Chief! When Yin and Yang were wanting to play, you were all gung-ho for me to throw myself in the middle of it! This guy singled me out for a reason—"

"Yeah, to kill you," Lassiter muttered, and was rewarded by a swift jab to the side with Juliet's elbow, which he acknowledged with a small yelp, and that he would in the future claim to have never uttered.

"—and I might be your only shot at nailing him! You can keep me safe  _while_  I investigate. You  _need_ me."

Henry, Karen, and Lassiter all opened their mouths to yell at Shawn for his stupidity, but to everyone's surprise, Juliet beat them to it. "Despite what you think, Shawn," she said, the biting edge to her voice belittled slightly by the mist of tears in her eyes, "the department can solve, and  _has solved_  cases without you. It's not all about you."

Shawn laughed slightly; there was a nervous ring to it. "On the contrary, Jules," he argued, well aware that he was probably on his way to earning a one-way ticket to the dog house, "I'm pretty sure this thing  _is_  all about me. I mean, this guy called me out for a reason. Now, it could be because of my hair, which, as you know, is fantastic, but I'm willing to believe that it could be because of my knack for solving the unsolvable, or my psychic powers. But no matter what the reason for his choosing me, it obviously has to do with me."

"For once, Shawn, will you just  _shut up_  and listen?" Ouch. Okay, definitely the dog house. Juliet waited for a second to see if Shawn was going to obey, and when he didn't start talking again, she continued, her voice much softer this time. "I  _know_  you're good at what you do, and I  _know_  you want to help. But if you try to investigate this, you'll just be putting yourself in harm's way. We have to make it impossible for The Hunter to get to you. We can't do that when you're—"

"Dancing around the room, flailing like an idiot, and babbling like a madman?" Lassiter cut in. It was now  _his_  turn to smirk.

"I don't dance," Shawn protested petulantly.

"But you admit to flailing and babbling?" Lassiter asked innocently.

"Proudly."

Lassie frowned. Shawn grinned. Henry cleared his throat. "Can we get back to the issue at hand, here?" he asked irritably, glaring at Shawn and Lassiter in turn. "Shawn, you're sure as hell not going to go sticking your nose into this one. I don't care if we have to handcuff you and throw you in a cell, you're not getting involved."

"But I  _am_  involved," Shawn protested. "My name was on the invitation."

"Enough. Karen, how are we doing this? Protective custody? Body guards?"

"I thought the jail idea was good," Lassiter supplied.

"Don't I get a say in this at all?" Shawn asked.

"No!" Juliet, Henry, Lassiter, and Karen exclaimed. Shawn raised his hands defensively.

"We'll talk details in a little while. I think we all need out of this room for a few minutes. Until then, Mr. Spencer, you don't leave this station. Your father is right; if you don't choose to cooperate, we  _can_  put you into protective custody, and if necessary, it can be with the FBI instead of the station. Your choice."

Shawn glared at the table top as everyone filed out of the room, leaving him alone with the invitation on the slide show. He squeezed his eyes shut, leaning heavily on the table, and tried to get a better hold on his emotions. Part of having a photographic memory was, obviously, having the ability of remembering everything in perfect detail. Shawn could still see the broken, beaten, mangled body of The Hunter's first victim in his head, as clearly as if he was still looking at the slide. He knew that it could very well be him next, and as much as he trusted the chief, Jules, and yes, even Lassie, he knew that he wouldn't be able to sleep unless he himself was doing something to catch this psycho.

Not that he would be sleeping for quite a while after this, anyway.

* * *

"This is ridiculous," Shawn grumbled as he and Gus got out of Lassiter's car and headed for Shawn's apartment. "I'm not five years old. I don't need a babysitter."

Gus made a dubious sound and shrugged. "To be fair, Shawn, you often act like you're five. And I'm not so sure about the babysitter, either."

"At least Lassie is going to let us go in alone to pack my stuff," Shawn conceded as he unlocked his door. He was less than thrilled about the chief's decision about his protection. It had been decided shortly after everyone – including a pale and worried Gus – had reconvened, this time in the chief's office, that Shawn needed to be with a police officer at all times. Also, he couldn't stay at his apartment, Gus's place, Juliet's place, his dad's place, or the Psych office until this was over. Apparently, these places were too obvious, and Shawn needed to be somewhere less conspicuous. The chief had suggested Lassiter's place, and as much as Lassiter had protested, especially after Shawn crowed for five minutes straight about their first sleepover, the chief overruled, insisting that with Lassiter's large collection of weapons and his known feud with Shawn, he would be a good choice. Even though Shawn had teased Lassiter about wanting to sleep over, he had tried to appeal to Chief Vick after everyone else had left the office, but she had been adamant: If Shawn didn't want to be handed over to the FBI to be put in protective custody, then he would have to agree to have a constant police escort and to stay at Lassiter's until The Hunter had been caught.

Needless to say, Shawn wasn't happy about it.

Together, Shawn and Gus managed to pack fairly quickly. Fifteen minutes and two full duffels later, they met an armed and annoyed Carlton Lassiter outside of his car.

"Good lord, Spencer. Did you pack enough crap?"

Shawn cocked his head and grinned, grateful that he could at least gain some small pleasures from his being baby-sat by Lassiter. "Now that you mention it, no, I don't, Lassie. I've got a whole other suitcase filled to the brim with crap, just in case you need some. Gus will go get it for you if you want."

"No I won't, Shawn!"

"Gus, don't be those tiny aliens from  _Toy Story_  that worship The Claw."

Gus grimaced. "You know those things freak me out, Shawn! I had nightmares for a week after that movie!"

Lassie sighed loudly and threw his head back. "Just… get in the car, Spencer. Guster, where are you going?"

"Back to the station to get my car. I have to work tomorrow, and I'm not going to be roped into staying up all night at your slumber party."

Lassie growled, "It's not a slumber party, and so help me, if either of you call it that again, the chief's going to have to put in you in protective custody… from me."

"Duly noted," Shawn said as he and Gus got into the car. "What about a sleepover? Or pajama party? PJ palooza…?"

* * *

The envelope waiting for them on Lassiter's doormat dampened Shawn's already downed spirits considerably. It was addressed simply to "Shawn," using the same swooping handwriting that was on the invitation sent to the police station. Lassiter insisted on opening it, seeing that he was a cop and point on this investigation, never mind that it had Shawn's name on it.

Lassiter opened it carefully, one hand on his gun. Shawn wondered if he planned on shooting the contents if he didn't like what they said. Shawn wouldn't put it past him.

Instead of shooting, after Lassiter read whatever was on the paper, he frowned deeply and tossed it on the kitchen table in Shawn's general direction. He pulled out his phone and walked away, and Shawn heard him say, "Chief, we have a problem" before he was out of ear range. Shawn turned his attention to the newest note, a terrible mixture of fear and anticipation welling up inside of him.

 _Shawn,_  it read,  _I find your department's attempts to keep you from The Game amusing, and slightly insulting if they think that sending you to the trigger-happy head detective's home is going to throw me off. I am determined that you will join me within the course of the next three days, whether by force or your own free will. Free will would be easier, but if you insist on making things difficult for yourself, you can rest assured that someone will be by to pick you up soon. The Game begins anew in three days' time, and I look forward to meeting you – you are the most fascinating yet._

_Sincerely,_

_The Hunter_

Shawn swallowed heavily, his stomach churning and throat dry. This was  _so_  not good.


	4. The Federal Bureau of Irritation

The ride back to the station was not a pleasant one for Carlton Lassiter.

"It's not fair, Lassie-frass!"

"You  _promised_  we'd have our first sleepover! You promised!"

"Lassie, don't be the only penguin who can actually fly! Take me  _baaaaack_!"

"Calling Carlton Lassiter, can you read me? Lassie? Lassie? Why are you ignoring me, dude? I'm trying to mend our bromance here, and you're killing it. Why'd you have to call off the slumber party? And just when I was about to break out Dance Dance Revolution!"

"Lassie. Lassie. Lassie. Lassie. Lassie-face. Lassie-frass. Lassiter. Lassiter. Carlton. Carlton. Carlton. CARLTON!"

Finally, unable to take any more of Spencer's babbling, whining, cajoling, cat-calling, and  _speaking_ , Lassiter swerved over to the shoulder, slammed on the breaks, and spun around in his seat, practically throwing himself at Spencer, the seatbelt the only thing really holding him back.

"Will. You. Shut. Up."

Spencer seemed to think about this for a moment. "I dunno... I suppose we can negotiate. How about this. I shut up, and we head back to your place. We watch scary movies, maybe  _Devil Wears Prada_ , gossip about Gus, do each other's hair, and then  _not_  go to the station where you plan to put me in a safe house with the FBI? It's a plan, right?"

"It's something all right," Lassiter hissed, rubbing his throbbing temples. He tried to lean in a little closer to Shawn, to get up in his face for emphasis, but his seat belt locked up. He tried again, but to no avail. Fuming, and trying his hardest not to throttle Spencer as the idiot giggled at his efforts, Lassiter unbuckled his seat belt and leaned in, flashing. "Listen, Spencer. I know exactly what it is you're doing, and it's not cute; it's not funny. It's ridiculous, and annoying, and there are people out there who are worried  _sick_ about you right now, and all you're doing is making an ass out of yourself because you're too much of a child to seriously face what's going on here! I'm  _not_ going to put up with your crap like Guster does, so you're going to stop being so insufferable, man up, and go to the FBI's safe house without a fuss. Got it?"

To which Shawn blinked owlishly and replied: "Aw, Lassie, I  _knew_  you cared!"

Spencer would be lucky if he made it to the station alive.

* * *

In all honesty, Shawn was a little surprised that Lassiter had read him so well. He was surprised, and he didn't like it. The only time he liked to be surprised was at surprise parties, and he never actually  _was_  surprised because he always figured out the surprise beforehand. But Lassie had seen through every defense mechanism Shawn had desperately tacked up around him, and because of that, Shawn could feel his meager control over the situation beginning to crumble.

Like he'd told Gus when they'd first gone up against Yang, he  _needed_  this. He needed his funny, his wit, his charm; he couldn't let these people get into his head. He had to focus: There was a crazed, homicidal serial killer after him (as opposed to a crazed, not-homicidal serial killer? Shawn thought that was a bit redundant), and he needed to feel like he had control of  _something_. If he couldn't be on top of the situation, if he had to be helpless, then he was going to grab the reins of the only thing he had left in his bag o'tricks and turn this horrifying situation into something to laugh at.

And Lassie wasn't playing along, which meant that Shawn's fearless facade was just about ready to crumble around his ears. And his neck. Probably his spleen and pancreas, too. There'd be a lot of crumbling.

To what was sure to be Lassiter's great surprise, Shawn was actually quiet the rest of the way to the station, other than to plead one or two times to let him go back to the house because he forgot Nervana the Zebra Pillow Pet. Well, it was worth a try, he supposed.

Upon arriving at the station, Shawn saw Juliet standing near the door, and a strange sense of  _deja-vu_  hit him - and he couldn't care less. He was out of the car before Lassie had even shut off the engine, earning him some very colorful remarks from Lassiter. When he reached his girlfriend, he quipped in a horrendous British accent, "Fancy seeing you here, gorgeous."

Juliet didn't smile, and she didn't frown, either. Her eyebrows just did that cute little thing where they scrunched together when she was worried. Shawn leaned forward and tried to kiss the concern away, but it didn't work, although she did start to tear up. Oh, crap. He'd wanted to make her feel  _better_ , not make her cry! Feeling utterly useless, Shawn tried to be his usual hilarious self and apologized, "I'm sorry, that wasn't one of my better entrances. Tell you what. I'll get back in Lassie's car, and we'll take it from the top."

"Shawn..." said Juliet. "Please."

And he stopped, because she looked terrified, and he suddenly realized there was nothing he could do about it. His stomach churned, and he looked away, only to find himself face-to-face with Gus, who, by the way, hadn't been standing there when Shawn had greeted Juliet.

"Gah!" he yelped. "Gus, what the heck, man?"

"Sorry, Shawn," said Gus, and Shawn realized that he'd said and heard enough of that word ("sorry," not "Shawn"; he didn't think he'd ever be tired of hearing his own name). Gus started doing that thing he did when he was trying his best not to cry - a high pitched whine, scrunching his face up like a mushy black raison.

"Gus," Shawn snapped, a bit irritably. "Stop it."

"I just want to say, Shawn, that it's going to be okay. I'm h-here for you, buddy, and I promise we won't let anything happen to -"

"Gus,  _stop_!" Shawn finally exploded. Gus's face uncrumpled somewhat, but a kind of hurt look remained in his eyes. "I'm fine, I'm not scared, I'm not going to die, I'm  _fine._   _Why_ does everybody seem to think that I'm freaking out about all of this?  _You guys are the ones freaking out!_  You're the ones that are making a fuss, making me go into protective custody, when I'm perfectly fine with staying at my own apartment or the Psych office until this is sorted out. I didn't need a babysitter with Yin  _or_  Yang, and I certainly don't need one now!"

"Yeah, well, that was a totally different situation," a familiar but  _so_ -not-welcome-at-the-moment voice said, "and you know it. Get over it, kid. These people are your friends -"

"They are," Lassiter was quick to point out as he, too, joined Shawn, Gus, Juliet, and now Henry in front of the station. "Not me."

Though he was still stewing about being treated like he was made of glass, Shawn couldn't pass up the chance to rib Lassiter a bit more. "Don't kid yourself, Lassie," he grinned, and the smile was strained, but he didn't care (he needed a bit of normalcy to return to the situation; all this girly emotion was getting a little out of his depth, to be honest). "We're not only friends, we're buds. We're amigos. Two musketeers minus one musketeer. Platonic soul-mates."

"Gross," said Lassiter.

"I said platonic!"

"And I said gross. What's your point?"

Shawn smirked slightly, feeling marginally better now that he had managed to rile Lassie up a bit, but his slight raise of spirits went spiraling downward as his father, once again, saw fit to bring an end to his joking and bring everyone's attention back to the uncool matter at hand.

"Would you two stop it? Shawn," he directed his son's attention back to the previous line of conversation. "These people are your friends, and they're worried about you. We're  _all_ worried about you. So if you would just get off your high horse for a moment and stop acting like such a jackass, maybe we could actually get something done about the fact that there's a crazed serial killer after you. You're going into protective custody with the FBI, because if that nut was able to locate you that quickly, then you're not going to be safe anywhere else. Get. Over. It."

Shawn studied the concerned faces of his girlfriend, best friend, and father, and the seemingly  _un_ concerned face of his platonic soul-mate, and grumbled, "Fine." Not willing to not have the last word, however, he quickly tacked on in a totally carefree voice, "I'll have you know, though, that I do not have a 'high horse.' Not only do I not have an animal of the equestrian kind, but I would  _never_  give it drugs. That's irresponsible, and frankly, quite sick."

"You are an idiot," Lassiter said bluntly. "Let's get this over with. We've got some FBI guys in the conference room."

"You  _are_  an idiot, Shawn," Henry agreed, clapping Shawn on the shoulder in what might have been a fatherly gesture if not coupled with the words that it was. "Lassiter nailed that one on the head."

"You're our idiot, Shawn," Juliet said, kissing him lightly on the cheek. "And you don't have to pretend in front of us. We understand."

"No, you really don't," Shawn said seriously, uncharacteristically, before shooting Gus a look that clearly said something along the lines of,  _Sorry, man. Didn't mean to make you feel bad. Tacos later, okay?_

Gus gave a slight smile in his best friend's direction, one that just as clearly stated, _It's all good, Shawn. Nothing to forgive. Oh, and tacos_ and  _burritos, dude. Don't forget the burritos._

Shawn tried to shrug off the emotions trying to smother him once more, shook his head slightly, and without a word, followed his father and Lassiter into the police station, Juliet and Gus right on his heels.

* * *

"I don't agree with this course of action," Shawn said as he looked around the inside of the long, black sedan. "Not in the slightest. I will, however, admit that the interior of this car is very posh, and thus saying, the ride to wherever this safe house is is slightly better because of it. Now, where is this alleged 'safe house,' again, anyway?"

The two FBI agents that he was riding with, one driving, and the other one in the passenger's seat, decked all out in black suit, ear devices, the works, exchanged exasperated looks, and Shawn knew that his plan to annoy the people effectively holding him captive for the foreseeable future was coming along splendidly.

"We told you already," said Agent Carson. "That's privileged information. We can't tell you. You'll find out when we get there."

"Privileged information? If anyone is privileged in this situation, it should be me!"

"Safety reasons," said Agent Clint. "We told you that, too."

"But it's just us in this car. Who am I going to tell?"

"There could be bugs."

"Ew! Where? Get them off!" Shawn flapped his arms around madly, hoping that his antics would hide the growing grin on his face.

"Not insects. Listening devices," Agent Carson ground out, his fingers twitching on the steering wheel. Shawn could tell that he was really getting under his skin. Excellent. He turned shifted slightly in his seat, only to see that there was another dark sedan following them. He wondered if his new friends new about it.

"While you guys are so busy worrying about not-insects," Shawn said in the most obnoxious tone of voice that he could muster, "someone's on our tail. Following us. Did you know that? Oh, and it's kind of sad if you're worried about listening devices in your own car. You're the FBI. Shouldn't you  _know_  if somenone's bugging your car?"

"Yes," Agent Clint said, annoyance painting his words. "They're with us. And it's just a safety precaution," he added through gritted teeth, addressing Shawn's second question.

"Oh. Well. Who are they? Why wasn't I told about this? And don't say privileged information; that's a lame excuse!" Shawn decided not to pursue the bug argument, because while he would enjoy watching the smoke come out of these agents' ears, he was far more interested in why they were being followed by someone else. It was obvious that they had hoped that Shawn wouldn't notice, but they hadn't counted on his amazing psychic powers of observation... or the fact that he just couldn't sit still in a car and had to look out every window available, even the back one. He'd heard it both ways.

"We were asked not to tell you about it until you were already in the car."

Shawn narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Because you probably won't be happy about it."

Shawn's eyes were now twin slits. " _Why?"_

"Well," said Agent Carson, "Your father is staying with you at the safe house."

Shawn's previously narrowed eyes widened in shock. "No, no, no," he said petulantly. "Me, locked up in a house somewhere in the middle of nowhere with  _him_ for God knows how long? No thank you. He'll nag me into oblivion."

"Good," said Agent Clint, smirking.

"That was very unprofessional of you," Shawn sulked.

"Everything about you is unprofessional," Agent Clint countered smugly. "I honestly think that The Hunter targeted the wrong guy."

"Maybe I'm not the right guy. Why don't we say that I'm not, so we can all go home?"

"As much as I'd love to do that," said Agent Carson, "we can't."

"Why not? You should live a little. Embrace life. Stick it to the man!"

"Our boss is a woman."

"To the woman!" Shawn corrected. He then decided to impress them with a bit of his psychic juju-magumbo. "By the way," he said, taking note of the ever so slight timorous, borderline defensive tone in Agent Carson's voice when he said that about the woman, and about the way that his ringed left hand twitched ever so slightly when he said it, "Does your wife know you're sleeping with your boss?"

He quite enjoyed watching Agent Carson's face turn from white to red in a matter of seconds.

* * *

The next three days passed by in a blur of trying not to go stir-crazy in the two-level safe house, avoiding his antsy, nagging father at all costs, and taking advantage of every chance he had to make Agent Carson, Agent Clint, or the other two guys who'd been with his dad in the other car, Agents Bowling and Newman, turn beet red in annoyance.

Once, he'd cornered Agent Newman in the smaller upstairs kitchenette and asked, "Why are you guys here?"

"We're keeping you safe," Agent Newman had said, "It's our job."

"Oh," said Shawn. "But I thought your job description was the Federal Bureau of Irritation."

Agent Newman's right cheek twitched slightly. He was very serious about his job. "Federal Bureau of  _Investigation_ ," he corrected in a forced-calm voice.

"Oh," said Shawn again. "So shouldn't you be out investigating something instead of keeping me prisoner here? I mean, it'd be different if you were the Federal Bureau of  _Incarceration_..."

Needless to say, Agent Newman had not been amused, especially after Shawn had told his colleagues about his (mostly) off-duty drinking problem, his inclination to clean and crochet when he got nervous, and his pet cat, who slept on his chest every night (those cat hairs just won't come off those official black PJs, no matter how much you roll'em with the lint roller), all of which Shawn had figured out using various clues the first time he met the tall, buff, big-eared man.

The four agents avoided Shawn as much as possible, but Shawn was excellent at finding people, so he usually had something to do other than hide from his dad and think about the Hunter.

He couldn't get to sleep, especially on the third night. He couldn't help but remember how the note had said that in three days time, if he hadn't come of his own free will, someone would come and collect him. He knew that it should be impossible. He currently had no contact with the outside world, and only the chief knew exactly where the safe house was stationed, a two-story bungalow on the California-Nevada border. As much as he hated being stuck in the safe house, he knew that it was supposed to keep him safe (well, duh). But still... something didn't set right in his gut, and it was the small hours of the morning before Shawn finally fell into a light, fretful sleep.

He dreamed of nothing.

He wasn't sure how long he'd slept when he found himself being shaken gently awake. "Mrrph," he said, and he didn't even know what that translated to. Finally, without opening his eyes, he forced his tongue to cooperate with the rest of his mouth and said, "Dad... told you to leave me alone."

The shaking continued, and Shawn blearily opened his eyes, an insult right at the tip of his tongue. It froze there when his vision cleared to reveal three men standing over him, two wearing ski masks and the other not, and he was not a man that Shawn had ever seen before. Panic flooded into his mind and he opened his mouth to yell for help. A damp rag was then shoved onto his face, covering his nose and mouth, and his world was shifting, turning, tilting.

The last thing he remembered before his vision went black and he knew no more was a strangely proper voice saying, "They always make it the hard way, don't they?" Then a pause. "Bring him."

Darkness.


End file.
